A spot there is, from public gaze retired,
Sought but by few, by fewer still admired,
Where Feeling’s holy fountains sparkling play,
Illum’d by Reason’s calm, yet brilliant ray;
Where tired spirit, wearied and oppressed

5

Far from the crowd may find its wished for rest; [
Where the heart’s purest, best affections spring,
Round which the siren Hope, delights to cling;
Where Genius loves his valued stores to shed,
And Fancy’s rich, yet simple flowers, are spread;

10

Where Dissipation, with her frenzied mien,
And sick’ning, tasteless joys, is never seen;
To which, if sorrow comes, a sacred charm
Pours in its deepest wounds a healing balm;
Where Disappointment, robbed of half his care,

15

Forgets to point the pathway to Despair;
Where, if a tear at times should dim the eye,
It beams the brighter when the tear is dry;
Where, like the Indian altar’s steady flame,
Love’s fire burns on, from youth to age the same;

20

So blest a spot, tho’ o’er the world we roam,
We ne’er can hope to find, as Home, sweet Home.

No,
indifference
is not
the worst of it,
and it doesn’t equate
with loneliness.
After all
you choose
your feelings,
even though
it doesn’t seem
like a choice.
No, it’s not
your sloppy sense
of direction,
alienating attitudes
or unbearable shyness,
which is, in fact,
bearable,
it is something else
entirely,
like cancer or
a car crash and
it is somewhere else
where you lost it,
your crumbling sense
of perspective.